LESSONS TO BE DERIVED FROM BIRDS.
The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child! be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy! may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.
He is floating down from his native grove;
No loved one, now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.
G. W. Doane.
WE come to gladden heavy eyes,
We are the earliest of "Spring-cries;"
The needle-girl her door uncloses,
When in the street she hears "Primroses;
Come buy my pretty primroses."
The invalid beside the fire
Knows that the sunny days are nigher,
That he has pass'd the wintry gloom,
When that cry's ringing through his room:
"Come buy my pretty primroses."
Old Age smiles when our flowers are bought,
They call back many a pleasant thought;
Memories of far-distant Springs,
That cheerful sound for ever brings:
"Come buy my pretty primroses."
Memories of pleasant places,
Memories of happy faces,
Whose smiles were like sweet sunny weather,
When we all were young together.
"Come buy my pretty primroses."
In the pleasant paths of Spring
Where we grow the skylarks sing,
And as they soar to Heaven's gate,
Seem singing to their speckled mate,
"Come buy my pretty primroses."
Blackthorns blossom where we grow,
Beside us early violets blow,
And the lambs, with pleasant bleating,
Seem to give a welcome greeting-
"Come buy my pretty primroses."
Summer, crowned with all her roses,
Cheers not like our "sweet primroses,"
For we to courts and alleys bring
With us that pleasant cry of Spring,
"Come buy my sweet primroses."
ALONE IN THE DARK.
SHE has taken out the candle,
She has left me in the dark;
From the window not a glimmer,
From the fireplace not a spark.
I am frightened as I'm lying
All alone here in my bed,
And I've wrapped the clothes as closely
As I can around my head.
There are birds out on the bushes,
In the meadow lies the lamb;
How I wonder if they're ever
Half as frightened as I am;
If they shake like me, and shiver
When they happen to awake,
With the dark sky all around them,
Ere the day begins to break.
But what is it makes me tremble?
And why should I fear the gloom?
I am certain there is nothing
In the corners of the room.
When the candle burned so brightly,
I could see them every one;
Are they changed to something fearful,
Only just because it's gone?
Though I speak, and no one answers,
In the quiet of the night,
Though I look, and through the blackness
Cannot see one gleam of light;
Still I know there's One who seeth
In the night as in the day,
For to Him the darkness dreary
Is as bright as noontide ray.
And perhaps while I am trying
How my foolish face to hide,
There is one of His good angels
Standing watching at my side.
Then I'll turn and sleep more soundly,
When one little prayer I've prayed;
For there's nothing in the darkness
That should make a child afraid.
THE BUTTERFLY.
WHAT a long way
I go in a day;
When I set out to take my pleasure,
I fly a distance you could not measure,
Over flowery valleys and tree-clad hills,
And I hear the murmur of silver rills,
That sing at noon
In the month of June
When Summer-roses are in full bloom,
And flowers light up the forest's deep gloom.
With folded wing,
I stand and swing
On the sweetest and daintiest buds that blow;
I look in the water that lies below,
And see my form in the mirror lie,
The trees upturned, and the deep blue sky.
Awhile I look
At myself in the brook,
Then to some companion I hurry away,
And for an hour we round each other play.
The dragon-fly,
With his large eye,
Gives me a nod as I hurry along;
Then the sweet-peas I rush among;
And when they're in flower you cannot tell me,
As I shut up my wings, from the bloom of the pea.
On the painted Lady,
While she weds the pea-rods with many a ring,
I stand and look round me while I swing.
Away I fly
Where the roses lie,
And on the choicest of blossoms alight,
For the richest flowers are mine by right.
On the finest bouquet that's borne by a queen,
Before they graced her fair hand I have been;
Plunged into each bell,
Had the first sweet smell,
And flew with it hanging about me for hours,
Till I bathed in the perfume of fresher flowers.
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